


One Youth and Beauty Brigade

by bigfriendlywords



Category: Outlander (TV) RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-01-20 22:20:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12442992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigfriendlywords/pseuds/bigfriendlywords
Summary: Ina world...in an alternative universe, might be a better start.Sam is a young actor settling into his rather prosperous career in Scotland when a sudden accident has him reconsidering his priorities and personal relationships. Spurred by his realization that he lacked experiences and relationships outside of Scottish theater and BBC productions, Sam travels to New York to attend a University.There, Sam meets an Irish doctorate students studying American culture across state lines who needs some assistance galavanting across the US for, you know, science. Eager to please teacher, Sam becomes her research assistant and discovers the lure of new experiences and new people...





	1. Learning to Breathe

It was on a bright and sunny afternoon and with a BAC of .01 that Sam found himself upside down in a ditch.

He came to slowly, blinking his eyes against the uncharacteristically brilliant sun that had gone unchallenged by the highland clouds that day. Scanning the scene in a calm, serene, almost calculating manner; his morning coffee pooling near his left ear, the script he’d been glancing at strewn across dash—the realization that he was, indeed, upside down in the driver’s seat, seatbelt boring into his windpipe, didn’t hit him until the blood rushing to his head caused him to pass out. 

Coming to again, moments later, Sam started to realize that maybe he was stuck in a morbid cycle of waking up, calmly appraising the damage, and then promptly passing out again. He wasn’t sure how long this sequence had been perpetuating, but finally felt that rush of adrenaline needed to eject his seatbelt—gravity, the cruel mistress, sending him shoulder first against the roof of his car.

Someone had discovered the carnage of his car some moments later. Sam had successfully kicked out his shattered window but managed to accrue a sizable cut that ran from knee to upper thigh. The sudden sight of blood and the husky way his voice only wheezed when he yelped in pain sent him into another tizzy of panic. 

When the first responder finally pulled Sam from the ditch, Sam clutched the man’s bicep and mouthed his full name wordlessly. His throat had felt as if someone had poured gasoline down his windpipe and struck a match. 

“Sir, do you have anyone we need to call?”

“My agent,” he wheezed, wincing at not only the croak of his gravelly voice, but also the dismal truth behind those words.

 

 

 

Sam reflected on those words two weeks later as he scribbled a quick signature on his discharge papers.

They had become his mantra during his hospital stay—from his brief stent in the ICU managing the laryngeal swelling that had closed his airway, the hasty tracheotomy that left what felt like a gaping hole in his neck, and the feeding tube that ran down his nasal cavity. 

Unable to speak, Sam stared at the fluorescents and repeated those two words: “my agent”, over and over until they lost all meaning and started to sound nonsensical. Once the damage, swelling, and fluids in his trachea cleared—Sam practiced vocalizing the words as a speech pathologist occluded his stoma with her thumb.

“Sam, can you count to ten for me as I cover your trach?” She had requested calmly, observing his SATs out of the corner of her eye while placing her thumb over the hole in his neck—forcing air in and out of his mouth. He greeted the familiar feeling of air between his teeth and cracked half a smile.

“One….two..,” He croaked, wincing slightly at a sharp pain in his larynx. He stopped at two, hearing a slight squeak as her thumb’s seal broke slightly and air escaped from his neck. He was incredibly ashamed to feel the wetness accumulate around his eyes and mortified when a tear dared to give into it’s weight and line down his cheek.

“Oh, it’s alright, Sam,” The speech therapist said, placing a valve on his stoma and wiping a bit of the mucous that had dripped down his throat. “They really abused your vocal folds trying to intubate you several times. We’re going to get there.”

The valve allowed Sam to breathe in through his neck but then forced air out through his vocal folds so he could speak(ish).  
“Can we try again?” He croaked, placing a hand on hers. He knew she had stayed late to work with him and was now stranded due to deteriorating weather conditions. The rain lashed across his tiny hospital window and cast cascading shadows across his white sheets. 

She smiled and nodded: “Let’s try something other than counting,” she suggested.

Once she had the valve off and occluded his trach once more, Sam took a deep breath, ignoring the squeaks from his neck. Looking directly at her, Sam said the words that had been eating away at him.

“My agent,” he whispered.

“Try it again,” She urged, “but use your voice. I know it’s sore but if you don’t use it, you lose it. What were you saying about your agent?”

“When…. When they pulled me…” Sam tried his voice, a rasping remnant of what it used to be. He paused to attempt a dry swallow. Due to trouble swallowing and him being at risk for pneumonia, the hospital staff had been stingy with his water consumption and his mouth felt dry and sticky. 

“Pulled me from…car….”

“Yes?” She replied, glancing at his SATs and noting the blinking 98%.

“They asked…” he continued, closing his eyes and reliving the moment, “who to call.”

The therapist removed her thumb from his trach and a rush of air swooshed out after her. He coughed, momentarily, but kept his eyes closed.

“You asked them to call your agent,” She finished for him, sitting back on his hospital bed. He nodded lugubriously, opening his eyes only to memorize the pattern of his hospital gown. The two sat for a moment, the sound of the rain falling in torrents pulling focus.

Sam let a cycle of faces scroll through his mind like a rolodex. There had to be someone who would care if he died in a ditch. It had to have been an accident—just a slip of the tongue. Sam felt the familiar prickle of tears, yet again—but the accompanying feeling of usual shame and embarrassment was absent. The speech therapist peeled off her gloves and covered his hands with hers.

 

 

 

The words continued to echo through his mind once moved to inpatient rehab. His agent did appear, as if conjured from thought, and walked in on his daily swallowing therapy. He was progressing through food consistencies and had mastered swallowing pudding; an accomplishment he had been most proud of until his agent walked through the door with an alarmed expression.

“It looks worse than it is,” He croaked at her. Her eyes had immediately honed in on the bright purple valve sticking out of his neck that allowed him to breathe. “I’m getting decannulated tomorrow.”

She had nodded stiffly and then turned her attention to his nurse as if he was not sound of mind or incapable of making his own medical decisions.

“Will he ever get his voice back? Does he have any lasting brain damage?” She asked these questions rapid-fire as she dug in her purse for pen and paper.

“My speech therapist said my voice will return,” Sam strained to be heard. “I didn’t hit my head—just injured my neck and airway.”

She had glanced at him then quickly back at the nurse as if she couldn’t stand the sight of him. 

 

 

 

His nurse slowly wheeled him to the hospital entrance, pausing now and then to allow Sam to show off his freshly healed stoma sight and slightly improved voice to his fellow patients and hospital staff. 

“Call me, next time,” his speech therapist chided, slipping him her business card. “ and don’t forget your vocal exercises.” 

Sam nodded, tucking her card into his front pocket.

 

 

Once in his cab, Sam found himself giving the driving directions to his agency rather than his unfurnished apartment in town.

Ignoring the secretary’s strong suggestion to knock before entering, Sam opened the door to his agent’s office and helped himself to dram.

“I’ll be taking some time,” He stated, wincing slightly at the vocal pain but dulling it quickly with a sip of scotch.

“Yes, of course,” She replied coolly, leaning back in her chair. “Till your voice improves.”

“No, it’s not that,” Sam croaked, draining his glass and promptly pouring another. 

“I see how easy it is to lose the two things that keep me gainfully employed,” Sam said motioning to his face and neck. “I would like to have something else….someone else.” He added as an afterthought if only for himself. 

 

 

 

Stepping off the bus and onto the spongy grass, Sam allowed himself an indulgent moment of inhalation. Treasuring the fulfilling feeling of air moving through his lips, puffing his cheeks, and traveling down his windpipe—Sam swore he would never take such normalcies for granted again. 

Taking stock of his belongings: a glorified daypack with three changes of clothes, a notebook, water bottle, and passport; Sam took a moment to pull his headphones from his pocket and stick them in each ear.

Fiddling momentarily with his music library, Sam smiled when the desired song was selected.

As Simon and Garfunkel’s “America” played as an impeccable soundtrack, Sam tapped the makeshift “Welcome to New York” sign someone had rectified as if greeting an old friend and took his first steps towards something else.


	2. Learning to Plan

Sam thumbed the edges of the course offerings booklet and stared deeply into his black coffee. It was easy; making the decision to go back to school, but selecting a major had him reconsidering every aspect of his life.

“Could course selection come with a palm or tarot reading?” he mumbled to himself, mindlessly leafing through the classes. Dragging a finger down the line, Sam arbitrarily stopped near the bottom of the page on “The Economics of the Conservative Right”.

Deciding that maybe his course selection shouldn’t be left up to fate, Sam drained his cup and stood for another.

“Another medium roast,” Sam muttered to the barista, leaning back to search through the pastry bin. “And possibly a…” Sam paused, looking at the bready goods before him. Though he had regained most of his swallowing function—bready foods still stuck in his throat like a glob of glue.

“Do get him a knish,” Someone spoke just over Sam’s shoulder. “Our boy doesn’t sound like he’s from around here.”

Sam nodded a thanks and glanced over his shoulder at his new companion: “how could you tell?” He smiled, offering a hand. “Name’s Sam.”

“Gerard,” he replied, taking his hand. “I’ve never heard such a beautiful r controlled vowel before in my life,” He added enthusiastically.

“Thanks?” Sam replied.

“Sorry; linguistic major. I tend to geek out over accents and dialectal variations. I home and nurture the belief that Scotts is, by far, the most beautiful variation of any English language besides possibly that of a Cajun, but that’s a controversial opinion perhaps for a more refined ear palate,” Gerard rambled, stepping between Sam and the counter in order to pay for both of their meals. “Also it’s been suggested to me that I talk too much.”

“Thanks again!” Sam threw in before Gerard could continue talking. Gerard shrugged and handed him his knish.

“Not that I was stalking—but you are sort of hard to miss,” Gerard said, giving Sam the up and down. “I noticed you thumbing through your course offerings with a bewildered expression hinging on madness.”

“Am I that transparent?” Sam suggested, pulling out a chair at his table for Gerard to join him.

“Well I’m also a psychology major and have an innate ability to attend to these things,” Gerard replied, plopping down across Sam and promptly dropping three sugar cubes in his coffee from an unwise height.

“You have an awful lot of majors,” Sam observed.

“Oh, I’m a connoisseur,” Gerard smiled, wiping away the drops of coffee the sugar had displaced. “I’m sort of a super, super senior. Which is why I could probably be of service to you.”

“Oh, aye?”

Gerard half melted in his seat at the sound; rolling his eyes up in mock ecstasy “Oh, aye.”

 

 

“So you’re trying to be brains and brawns?” Gerard asked, triumphantly clicking “submit” on Sam’s class schedule and slamming his laptop shut. After an hour or so of Gerard meticulously picking Sam’s mind in the coffee shop, the two had migrated to Gerard’s flat above a comedy club for further analysis. Gerard, playing an armchair college advisor, ultimately concluded that Sam shouldn’t aim for any specific major and simply pack his class load with interesting and odd courses. 

“Like, reinventing the Mrs. Major for beautiful actors who want to be able to write an autobiography at the end of all things,” Gerard had stated.

“I just want to experience new things and attending an American university seemed like a good crash course,” Sam shrugged.

“Where are you staying?” Gerard asked, standing from his chair and crossing the room.

“In a Marriot,” Sam responded, nudging his backpack with his toe. “Like a divorcee.”

As if he had anticipated such an answer, Gerard opened a door off the kitchen to reveal a fully furnished room complete with a fully dressed bed, a set of wooden drawers, and several vined pothos plants hanging from the ceiling.

“So, I got a minor in interior decorating,” Gerard said proudly. “My ex-boyfriend moved out a couple months ago so I’ve been using the space to flex my spatial fingers.”

Gerard actually flexed his fingers.

“You wouldn’t have to sign a lease,” Gerard continued. “You’d just have to let me phonetically transcribe your speech in different situations. You know, when you’re emotional, tired, inebriated…”  
Taken aback, Sam peeked his head into the offered room and raised his eyebrows.

“This is verra kind,” He said, annunciating his ‘verra’ as a thank you note to Gerard.

“Dinna fash,” Gerard responded. “Dinna fash, right? Did I say it right?”

“Aye.”

 

 

Gerard was a godsend. Between his hospitality, culinary degree, and relentless extraverted personality, Sam found himself spending the three days before the semester started in an endless dinner party with a steady flow of interesting people and good conversation.

“You pull focus,” Gerard had joked the night before classes, leaning over the sink spout to wash the electric red dye from his hair. “I’m ganna need you to move out.”

“Is that why you’re dying your hair red? To pull the focus back?” Sam sneered, removing the faucet head and running it along Gerard’s scalp.

“Dinna fash,” Gerard smiled, pleased with his new vernacular, “this is the least dramatic thing I’ve done for attention.”

Wrapping his hair in a towel, Gerard sat back against the porcelain tub and accepted Sam’s offered glass of wine.

“You nervous about starting a la university?” Gerard asked.  
Sam also finds a seat on the bathroom floor and pours himself a hardy glass.

“Not so much,” he admitted. “Mainly thanks to you.”

“I don’t know, man,” Gerard responded, patting at his hair with a somewhat abused towel that held the hued ghosts of past dye jobs. “When you mentioned meeting someone new, I’ve gleaned you didn’t mean a trust fund academic who spends his time becoming mediocre at a variety of skills.”

Sam sat for a moment on that, swirling his wine around his glass. Gerard, having been virtually a stranger three days previously, simply plucked him from his seat in a coffee shop and gave him a home. Though he hadn’t asked, he was sure Gerard was approximately three years his senior, had spent essentially no time in a gym nor had an inkling to scale a mountain; all things Sam would have considered a must-have for common interests. But there he sat; a short man of 5’5 with electric red hair, a nicotine addiction, and compulsive need to scratch the side of his nose every so often: the best friend Sam had ever had.

“You’re exactly what I meant,” Sam said earnestly.

Gerard flashed him a brilliant smile, cocking his head to one side to give him an appraising look; “Alright, this is your last glass of wine for the night. I talked to your speech therapist and she said limit alcohol and caffeine for those beautiful cord of yours.”

“Aw, man are you two talking?”

“What? I answered your phone the one time and she is a great conversationalist. She asked if you’d been doing your vocal exercises… which I’ve noticed you haven’t. I covered for you and said I’m positive you’d want to avoid being type casted as a vengeful cowboy or someone suffering from CPOD and would be getting on it straight away.”


	3. Mastering Disdain

The familiar scents of the library encased Caitriona in a tomb of comfort and security. She leaned over her book, as absorbed with the content as she was the beautiful gilt pages that pyramided down on either side.

"I will leave, I will leave the woods that bore me," Cait repeated softly, running a finger along the line in the book. She smiled softly and closed her eyes in delight. She had always found solace within the pages of Tolkien and frequented the well-worn book often and in a variety of spaces; in the woods, on a sandy coast, in the closet of her flat pretending to record an audiobook. Cait truly believed that a book changes with the scenery. 

Her momentary bliss was interrupted abruptly when someone dropped their books on the desk in front of Cait and invited himself to the seat across from her. Glancing up, Cait caught the smug smirk of her teaching assistant and briefly closed her eyes.

"Lord of the Rings?" He chided. "Again?"

"Christopher," She said warningly, putting a protective arm around her book, "what did we say about boundaries?"

"Yes, yes, I know but--"

"Also remember our conversation about the library being a sanctuary?" She continued, eyes already scanning the room for an escape. 

"Yes, I recall," Christopher responded flatly. "But this is important. My advisor signed off on our little road trip. As long as I deliver a proper dissertation at its conclusion, we're good to go."

"Goody," Cait replied stiffly.

Christopher had been randomly assigned to Cait, as the university had conducted interviews while she was still vacationing in Ireland. She held the suspicion that the university had done this purposely as a punishment. She had been a bit outspoken when it came to allocating her a graduate student due to a traumatic experience in the past and was critical of how the University had dealt with the issue.

She recalled the informal hearing in front of the school administration sometimes with blinding anger. Sometimes she would wake at night still fuming about the injustices and the ignorance that came from the “great educators of our time”. It wasn’t lost on her that they were all men.

“Ms. Balfe, you worked very closely with this student with subject matter that is quite sensitive if not sensual,” One of them had said with an aloof tone and condescending expression. They were referring to her class “Human Sexuality in 18th Century Literature.”

“He came into my office, locked the door, ignored my wishes for him to halt his advances, and then he touched me inappropriately,” She had repeated for what felt like the 100th time. It had almost become a chant—each rendition increasing in volume but maintaining the same cadence. “I don’t understand why he hasn’t been removed from the program.”

“Ms. Balfe, it’s not like he raped you.”

She had wanted to quit. She knew it was right to quit. She had attempted to reason with the world of academia and the establishment proved itself to be immobile and unkind despite their quickness to tote around a liberal banner with their “mindful” acceptance rates and their adherence to Affirmative Action. In not so many words, the board essentially begged for her gratitude that they ignored her gender when giving the spot in the program. She had all but sent her resignation letter when a girlfriend offhandedly mumbled “don’t let the bastards grind you down.” 

She scribbled that quote on a post it and stuck it on top of the half completed manuscript she had been working on meticulously for the past two years as part of her PhD program. She stared at it for days, sipping casually on her coffee and considering the meaning of such a phrase. She was the only woman in her department. She had numerous female students, but she was the only woman they would see in the English sector. If she left, she was certain she would be replaced with a tweed-wearing, slightly damaged, white male who might be quick to ignore the female perspective in literature.

When she finally made her mind to stay, she resigned her fate to that of an academic outcast. She felt utterly alone within her department, her university, and in all facets her life. No one had stepped up to support her and she felt that abandonment wholly.  
Assigning her a teaching assistant without her consent after accepting her road-tripping across America proposal only added fuel to the fire.

“Okay then,” Christopher said, pushing back his chair. “I’ll leave you to it. I’m really looking forward to our trip. I think you’ll like me once you get to know me.”

Ignoring the overwhelming urge to shriek at him, Cait adopted that stiff smile she had perfected and nodded at him.

He hesitated for a moment, as if to add an additional remark, but thought better of it.

“See you in class, Caitriona.”


	4. Learning Vices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SO I totally didn't paste the beginning of this chapter....  
> fixed it  
> sorry for the confusion, you all are good sports for not commenting "um. what?"

Sam glanced through his schedule for the third time that morning, attempting to memorize the room numbers and start times. Conveniently, and probably purposely, Gerard and Sam had very similar schedules.

“American Culture Across State Lines is first,” Gerard said sleepily, head bowed over a cup of steaming coffee. “Followed by paranormal psychology, Queer Studies and Film, and then Creative Writing.”

“God, I can’t wait for paranormal psychology,” Sam said excitedly. The two had dissimilar morning routines that ran at very different paces. Sam was up with the sun in order to get in a solid hour of cardio whereas Gerard blindly stumbled from his room sometime after midmorning.

Seemingly out of nowhere, Gerard produced a sizable flask from some deep pocket in his robe and poured a laughable amount of clear liquid into Sam’s coffee thermos.

“A first day of the semester tradition,” Gerard explained, pouring himself an equally generous pour.

Sam attempted a dour “oh, I don’t know” but was quickly cut off.

“You’re going to uni for the experiences, not to mark up your electronic syllabus and stroke the professor’s ego as he discloses his numerous degrees and publications,” Gerard reminded him, taking a brave sip from his thermos.  
“Experience number one: being day drunk on the first day of school.”

Sam, not so opposed to the notion as he once might have, took his thermos from Gerard.

“Slàinte.”

By the time the two had made it to Manhattan, they both felt a healthy buzz that had left Sam smiling like a school boy and Gerard casually flirting with every passersby.

“Did you major in the art of seduction,” Sam asked, turning Gerard away from an elderly woman who had just been informed that her beret really accentuated the blazing silver of her hair.

“No, that’s a skill I was born with,” Gerard winked.

Navigating the campus with a steadily rising blood to alcohol ratio proved to be challenging. Gerard was insistent that the desired hall was located on the southwest corner of the campus despite the map clearly labeling it in the northeast corner. Sam’s anxiety concerning his tardiness quelled as he took more sips from his thermos and he relished in the feel of the late summer breeze New York offered. 

By the time the two had stumbled up the stone steps to the correct hall, which was located where the map had promised, they were 30 minutes late to an hour seminar and thoroughly wasted.

Sam hissed unnecessary reminders of an obnoxious “shhhhh” to Gerard as they slinked through the halls in search of their classroom. 

Once outside the door, Gerard cracked the door ajar slightly and peaked an eye inside—Sam doing the same above him like a wobbly totem pole.

Inside, Sam saw the back of a tall, brown haired woman, erasing course outcomes on the chalkboard. Startled, he noticed that her room was empty and stepped back to verify the room number. Apparently Gerard had the same idea, for they both took a step back.

“This is the right room. How long were we wandering around out there?” Sam asked incredulously, widening his eyes at Gerard.

“I don’t know, man.” He responded, eyes mirroring his wonder.  
“We’re experiencing missing time, I believe—a definite symptom of alien abduction. We should mention this to our paranormal psychology teacher.”

Sam nodded gravely and the two leaned back in to resume their totem pole position, peering into the room. Just as they aligned their line of sight, the door was opened from the inside and Gerard, followed by Sam, tumbled into the room knocking the brown haired woman down in the process. 

Sam grabbed Gerard by the shirt collar to help him avoid falling flat on top the woman and immediately felt himself fall into his defense mechanism: wildly apologizing while trying to hide the growing rash of red that crept from his cheeks all the way down his neck. 

“I beg your pardon,” Sam kept repeating, stumbling to help her up. He noticed Gerard give him a coy look.

“It’s alright,” She finally responded, once sturdy on two feet and brushing her hair out of her eyes. Straightening out her blouse, she finally looked up at her attackers and paused momentarily on Sam’s face. Sam felt his blush burn hot and immediately regretted the decision to pregame on the first day of school. She was awfully pretty and he was one shade away from becoming a tomato.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Sam said for the 6th time just to fill the silence. Her eyes finally slid to Gerard and she cleared her throat.  
“You must be my missing Sam Heughan and Gerard Null?” She finally says with a hint of austerity.

The alcohol was slowing his processes. He was struck by her Irish accent as if she had slapped him across the face with it. He hadn’t time to digest her words as he was too busy opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water.

“I’m sorry, you’re the professor?” Gerard spoke instead.

“Yes,” She responded with a warning in her voice. “Caitriona Balfe. You’ve missed my class”

“We thought we were just,” Gerard paused, glancing at his clock. “Oh Christ, forty five minutes late.”

He glanced at Sam who was still doing an excellent impersonation of a mime.

“Actually you’re an hour and forty five minutes late. Didn’t the TA email you about the time change?” She asked, her gaze drifting back to Sam.

Sam, slightly alarmed that he was back in the spot light, simply shook his head no and closed his mouth abruptly.

“Figures,” She sighed, looking between the two as if trying to decide something. “Do you have any more of whatever it is you’re drinking?”


	5. Learning Reflections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I screwed up last chapter, do go read again.

Cait found herself dreaming about home. Setting her kettle before sinking into her reading nook chair, her mind started to roam the grassy fields and distant streams. She had pulled on her favorite wool sweater from home though the New York summer was rioting outside her door.

She pretended to entertain the thought that home had simply crossed her mind due to some other unrelated reason and not because a beautiful Scotsman hadn’t literally knocked her off her feet.

She used to spend her summers in Scotland, pretending to visit a cousin but really reacquainting herself with the moors, heather, and greenery. The sound of Sam’s Scottish accent sent her back there; to the smells of the highlands and chilly nights made warm by scotch.

She had taken a long swig of his drink, highlighted miscellaneous phrases on her syllabus for him, and then ushered them out the door with an over heightened sense of urgency. She had never experienced such a visceral, immediate pang of attraction like that before and it left her reeling. 

She forced her mind to stray from it’s current path back onto home. She wasn’t often homesick but the feeling of isolation the academic climate had cultivated left her vulnerable. She’d rather bask in that isolation then acknowledge the fact that, for the first time sense that obtrusive, chauvinistic TA laid his hands on her, she had felt the spark of attraction towards a man. Already her mind started problem mapping the consequences and altercations of her developing a crush on a student; especially since the board already assumed she was a hypersexual, coyly encouraging advances from men under her instruction. The university would have a field day. 

Her thoughts were interrupted at her kettle whistled, beckoning her back into the kitchen. Pouring herself a cup of steaming tea, Caitriona grabbed her laptop from her messenger bag and forced herself to lesson plan for the upcoming week. Sifting through the dozens of emails Christopher had sent within the past hour, Cait noticed an unread email with the heading “deepest apologies.”

She smiled, despite herself, remembering the dark flush he had unsuccessfully masked as he fumbled through several attempts at an apology. 

“Forget it, Balfe,” she said aloud, hiding her face her coffee mug.

 

 

“Alright men,” Professor Caitriona started; a curious phrase to initiate a class with, Sam thought. “Brace yourselves; we’re talking about privilege.”

There was a singular groan of mock annoyance that came from Gerard, accompanied with a wink. Professor Caitriona shot him a smirk before producing a mirror from behind her podium.

“Feminist theory dictates that privilege can be observed in the mirror,” She explained, holding the mirror at an arms length and observing her reflection. “When I look in the mirror, what do I see?”

A resounding silence greeted her. She apparently had anticipated this.

“Don’t be shy, what non-proper nouns do you assign to me?” She urged them.

“A woman,” someone spoke up.

“Yes,” She replied, smiling and handing the mirror off to the nearest student who was also a woman. “And what do you see?”

“A woman,” the student replied, before handing the mirror to her seat partner like it was a hot potato.

Her seat mate took a second, gazing into her reflection and considering the topic of the lecture.

“A black woman,” She replied shyly, giving Professor Caitriona a questioning glance.

“Ah, a wild modifier appears,” Caitriona replies, taking the mirror and handing it to Gerard.

“Ok, I’ll bite,” He replied, shrugging. “A queer man.”

This earned him a round of applause which led Gerard into standing and bowing before the class. Before passing the mirror back to Professor Caitriona, who posed a follow up question.

“If the addition of a modifier establishes a departure from privilege, how do you explain your lack of a modifier? “ Gerard postulated. “Knowing you’re a step from the cis white male, that is.”

“Interesting question,” Caitriona responded, turning on a nearby man and giving him a quizzical look. “generally at this point in the lecture, the before mentioned men stop playing, but usually their initial response is ‘a person’.”

Sam considered this for a moment, pretending to analyze himself in the mirror. She was probably correct, he realized, yet he had a modifier he had placed before his gender being in a foreign country. As if Caitriona had the same thought, she caught his eyes before clearing her throat. 

“Don’t worry, you’re not in the wrong class. This isn’t a women and gender studies class. But why then is it important to preamble this class with a discussion about privilege?” She asked, turning to the chalkboard, ignoring the way Gerard’s hand shot up to answer a rhetorical question. “It’s because we simply cannot understand America across state lines without first acknowledging the privilege that continually motivates and holds us back.”

Caitriona made her way along the stacks to Sam’s seat, and softly placed the mirror before him. Sam plucked it up ditheringly.

“A Scottish man,” Sam spoke, clearing his throat. “A foreigner.”

“The Scotts call foreigners Sassenachs, is that correct?” She asked with a hint of humor. 

“Usually just the English,” Sam said pointedly, “But I catch your drift.”

What could have been mistaken for a giggle escaped her lips. She quickly pursed her lips and stalked away from him but it was too late.

 

That night, flipping through his required reading absent mindedly, Sam replayed that brief, muted giggle over and over again in his mind. 

Sipping the peppermint tea Gerard had made him, Sam abandoned his course work and scrolled through his email. Pressing send receive, a new email popped up with Caitriona’s signature. It was a reply to his clumsy attempt at an apology she had neglected to respond to. 

“No worries, Sassenach” It said.

He was done for.


	6. A Lesson in Improv

Sam had never experienced higher education that was solely academic based. He missed thespian classes of his theater years that broke up the day with intermittent bursts of singing, dancing, drama, romance, emotion, or stage production. Though, having Gerard as a friend fulfilled some of these lacking facets, what really eased his transition into hard studies was the inner screenplay his time in Ms. Balfe's class afforded him. 

There was something romantic in the way she moved and spoke; as if she was a classic Hollywood queen. Always using her space, she often glided from various high points in the room, enrapturing her audience even when she was silent and listening to a student's narrative.

Christopher had been watching her like a scavenger waiting for the kill. Perched on his TA stool in his tawdry sweater, he often offered miscellaneous and obviously practiced “hype man” phrases whenever he felt necessary (which was nearly every five minutes to the second).

Christopher wasn’t a fan of Sam and often reminded him of this fact in not-so-subtle ways.

“I don’t know how much of an opinion you could offer,” He had said at some point when Sam answered a question concerning far-right voters under the poverty line who voted against government funded assistance programs. 

Gerard cocked his head at that comment, “Wait, wait, which factor disqualifies him this time? Is it the being from Scotland thing, or the swimming in boat loads of cash thing. Or could someone with a jawline like this not understand poverty like that.”

Christopher had since been giving Gerard bad marks and the cold shoulder, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

Sam had to believe he wasn’t making up the brief glances Caitriona was also giving him. Almost forehead to desk dissecting a scantron, Sam could feel her stare from her podium. When he looked up, she was often still staring in his direction but with an unfocused, far off look as if she had initially been studying the crown of his head but drifted elsewhere.

One stormy morning, Caitriona had the lights off to better project a colorful slideshow flipping images of a rainy pacific Northwest, flat Midwestern planes, costal waves and Louisiana swamps. Between the switching of hues and radiant color shifting from brilliant red and serene greens, Sam swore Caitriona was meeting his eye with probably the same purpose and intent he had; observing how the light changed her features.

“You’ve got to stop eye fucking her,” Gerard said nonchalantly during parapsychology while setting up their telepathy experiment.

“You accuse me of eye fucking everyone,” Sam replied, shuffling a deck of cards. “Did it ever occur to you that’s just how I look at people.”

Gerard considered this for a moment, “Yea, I think that’s plausible.”

“Alright, I’ve arranged the cards before me. I’ve got 7 cards—starting from my left your right, what are they?” Sam asked, tipping his chin and staring meaningfully at Gerard.

Gerard mirrored Sam; intense and unblinking.

“Queen of hearts,” He finally said. 

Sam gave Gerard an incredulous look, “and I’m definitely not in love with her.”

Gerard raised an eyebrow, “next one is a joker.” 

 

Having successfully confirmed that neither were telepathic, Gerard and Sam held a silent vigil for their dreams of being clairvoyants and then started their trek back to Gerard’s flat.

Though fully engrossed in a telepathy bashing, evidence backed discussion with Gerard, Sam felt his mind and eyes wondering to the English hall where he happened to know Caitriona was currently inhabiting. She strictly adhered to her office hours policy.

“The power dynamic is sort of sexy, don’t you think?”

Sam snapped back to his conversation with Gerard, noticing the subject had suddenly changed. This wasn’t an unusual phenomenon with Gerard, but the subject matter was very on the nose.

“Gerard, are you a little concerned about the grading rubric for Ms. Balfe’s class? I’m a little concerned about the grading rubric for Balfe’s class.”

Gerard’s face split into a brilliant smile.

“Why no, Sam, I’m fairly satisfied with her rubric. But if I was concerned, I think I’d take advantage of those stringent office hours Ms. Balfe loves to advertise when absently glancing in your direction. Yes, that’s what I’d do.”

Sam nodded and saluted a farewell before changing course towards the English Hall. Her office lights were one, of course. Not letting his mind catch up with his actions, Sam quickly knocked on the door twice before pushing the ajar door open. 

Before him was a scene. The Dean of Humanities and Social science was sitting in Caitriona’s chair with his hands folded neatly before him on the table. In front of the Dean, Caitriona was sitting on the edge of her seat with an incredulous look on her face. Both stopped whatever it was they were saying, possibly shouting, and turned to gape at Sam.

Sam was aware of an agonizing awkward silence which he quickly quelled with a : “Oh, sorry professor, I—“ 

“Him,” Caitriona nearly shouted, pointing directly at Sam’s person. 

“Him?” The Dean asked dubiously, giving a Sam a glance over. 

Red alarms immediately sounded in Sam’s mind as he had nearly convinced himself he had just walked in on Caitriona accusing him of stalking. He took a cautious step back, already feeling the red of his blush creeping down his neck. 

“Yes, him,” Caitriona repeated herself. “Sam Heughan. He is the brightest in the class and takes the most initiative.”

“But Christopher is your TA,” The Dean started skeptically.

“Yes, I am aware of that. But I would be better assisted by Sam,” Caitriona said matter-of-factly. She nodded reassuringly at Sam but then paused upon making eye contact. “And Gerard Null,” she added as a hesitant after-thought. 

“Any reason you’ve decided to bench your TA in favor for these two?”

“Well, I need Christopher here to cover lecture. And also Heughan hasn’t seen America whereas Gerard has seen it all. I’d appreciate the juxtaposition such an arrangement could afford,” Cairtriona had her back to Sam again, who was attempting to be a good improv partner and play along, but was having a hard time following.

The Dean considered this for a moment before clearly deciding he didn’t care enough to argue.

“Fine then, enjoy your university funded road trip across the states, Mr. Heughan.”


End file.
